It Isn't Only A Job
by LinneLuvin
Summary: Just a little drabble about Undertaker's "job".


Undertaker roused from his sleep silently, opening his eyes to stare through the impeccable darkness at the velvet lining of his favourite coffin. Though he could see no light, he always knew when day had come, light had flowed into his parlour, and customers were soon to arrive. All matters, living and dead, though the latter were the only that sparked any interest within him. The living were a dreary type, most without the ability to laugh, without any regard of the importance of a smile. The living were a nuisance, a pain filled nuisance, which he knew of all too well.

He tapped his nails on the lid, lifting and sliding it aside, grasping the corners to support his body as he heaved himself upwards. He gave a little laugh, only a small chuckle, heels clicking as he pushed the coffin top back into place. In no time at all, customers and clients would be arriving. He smiled, a tiny smile, a thin twist of his lips, retreating to the outermost rooms, where he cooked, cleaned, kept his clothes. He liked to keep his mundane life as far away from what he enjoyed in it as possible. He silently dressed, straightened his hair, took care of his hygiene, and left that place as soon as possible. For some reason, he felt as though, one day, it would permanently absorb him. The thought surprised him, as he liked to keep a smile on his face. So, he forced one, preparing for his customers.

He was arranging his bone-shaped cookies when the first one stepped inside. A woman, eyes looking older than her years announced herself with a few resounding sniffles. Undertaker looked up from his work, noticing her frown, her tears, and immediately spread a smile across his face. The living had no regard for smiles, especially not the ones who stepped into his parlour, but he placed one on his face for their benefit. They must be taught to smile, especially those who looked as though they no longer could. He seated her, knowing why she had come, why the pain in her eyes had lodged itself there. He offered her some tissue paper and tea, as well as a welcoming hand, and encouraged her to speak. It was always a river of information from ones like this; people who cried with abandon, people who no longer knew how to smile or laugh. He listened silently, nodding ever so often, offering her smiles. As she finished, he removed himself from the scene, asking her if she'd like to help herself to the cookies. She didn't reply, but then again, none of the living ever did. He returned shortly with a small coffin, small enough to fit snugly into his arms, showing it to her. Almost immediately she broke again, spilling her tears onto the floor, onto the cold, hard box, onto his arms. He did not move, but allowed her to cry, giving her a small smile and waited patiently for the pain to clot. It always did, with the living. As it dammed, he pulled a cloth from his sleeve, motioning for her to take it, keeping the smile on his lips as she dabbed at her darkened eyes. He again offered her the box to inspect, leaving her alone with it for a few moments. Ones like this always required warm tea, and he laughed to himself quietly.

When he returned, she had placed down the box by her feet. He listened as she spoke, giving her the tea he had prepared. She sighed, and he finally gained it; a tiny smile had come onto her lips, if only for a moment. She picked up the small box, handing it to him, and announced her leave. She picked up one of the bone-shaped cookies by the door, and he bid her farewell.

He returned the box to it's place among the others, the ones that had been chosen by the living, for the dead that they cared for so greatly. He sighed to himself, staring at the piles of accumulated grief, and smiled. Not for the pain that they represented, but for the strength of those, both the dead and the living, that had come to secure them. For the fun he'd had, teaching the living to smile again, for the opportunity to prepare the dead for the greatest celebration, the final celebration of their existence. He left the room, coming into the main parlour again, the smile on his face growing wider. The living may be dreary, but he was the Undertaker for more than one reason. The world would be a sad place, without the smiles and laughter of the living. And, even the saddest of the sad can be taught to smile again.


End file.
